


One Phantom Lost

by RubberSoles19



Series: Disdain and Ecstasy [1]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Family, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of character development, Physical Torture, Psychological Torture, So much angst, Unofficial Sequel, alw!canon, is a really long series that takes place after the fire, it's gonna be a long ride, kay books, leroux book, mental manipulation, mix of canon, there's an oc that replaces the daroga I'm sorry, these are all emotional children that find themselves family by the end of it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-04-16 09:43:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14162058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubberSoles19/pseuds/RubberSoles19
Summary: After Don Juan, after the lair, after making her choice, Christine remains haunted by the decision, and the ghost that forced it upon her. She sees him everywhere, and hears his voice, feeling him continue to tug at her heart and at sing to her mind. However, it's been two year since the Opera Populaire was shut down among a flurry of scandal and fear, and there hasn't been a single sign of her angel, living or dead, besides the ones conjured up by her own madness. Raoul, try as he might, has been powerless to help her. He's stayed by her side, assured her the Phantom will never hurt her, and taken out loan after loan from Philippe, his brother, to help her, but not even he can save her from her own mind. Word, then, reaches the two about a doctor in America that might be able to help, and the unhappy fiances leave the hurt of Paris behind in desperate hopes to find a new home, and new life.But can madness, like ghosts, really ever die?





	1. One Old Madness

**Author's Note:**

> I've been planning this series for quite a while, but only recently decided to start writing it out. This is a long series, and long stories, so stay tuned for updates.
> 
> I've never read the books, but have obsessively consumed as much of the canon as I can, though my heart lies in the ALW!musical. Since I think all adaptions have plenty to offer, I've decided to marry different bits and parts from the different canons together in to make this universe. The roots, however, lie in the ALW!Musical, and I consider the cast from the 25th Anniversary Concert as the canon for this, including Sierra Boggess as Christine, Hadley Fraser as Raoul, and, of course, Ramin Karimloo as The Phantom. You don't have to adopt these actors for yourself, but there's my reference for them. :)
> 
> I'll update these as I can, but again, you can watch the live time updates in my Discord. Onward to victory! And lots of Angst of all descriptions.

Christine blinked. The lights blinding her were... were stage lights. The emptiness that echoed around her it - it was a stage. Empty. An empty stage. An empty stage flooded with stage lights, and her, alone on it, and blinded. Something tugged at her ears, a tapping, and Christine blinked again, flinched out of the lights and raising one hand to block them. The tapping paused for only a moment, then music rushed at her, over whelming her like a tidal wave, hot and thick and suffocating. She opened her mouth, or rather it opened, and she tried to breath, but sang instead, a shaking note that didn't sound like her own voice, not her own strength and poise, nothing that her angel had taught her was in that note. The note dipped, pulled down as if by something Christine couldn't see, but she bent her back at the weight, destroying her lungs as she folded over onto them. Gasping, she snapped upwards, stars blinking into her vision as her head spun at the moment, and that note - a terrible, terrible note - it continued out of her, trembling and uncertain and quite unhappy.

Something else crawled under the wave of music and up towards her, surrounded her, slinking closer and hissing - jeering at her - the note rose and it shattered her voice at the sudden yank, and she felt herself stumble backwards, grasping and digging her fingernails into her throat. What was this thing that had such control over her?! What was she seeing - these monsters! Monsters, surrounded her, and she looked for them, but they darted from her eyes wherever they pointed, lingering on the corners of her vision but darting away quicker than she could find them. Booing, jeering - more hatred! Drowning, she was suffocating, she tried to gasp for breath but sang instead, cracking notes that splintered and broke and shattered - the monsters were closer now! They were every where - something had her! It had her! HELP! Angel! ANGEL HELP -  
  
"Christine? Christine!

_Christine..."_

"What -?!" Christine screamed, darting upwards and lashing out at her surroundings.

"Christine!" a voice called, sharply but calmly. The redhead, trembling, found him as the world cleared, Raoul staring back her with worry. "Darling, it's okay! You're safe."

Moving to respond, Christine was met with a scratch in her throat and touched it with one hand. Then, she felt the scratches deep within the skin.

"It was real, wasn't it?" she breathed, eyes blown wide. "Wasn't it? All of it! I-"

"Christine, there's no need to think about that now," Raoul smiled, laying his hand on her own. Christine, however, knew better, and pulled her eyes away from the man that had no business fawning over her.

The Vicomte's home was large, and heaven knew she was familiar with it after living on the premises for the last, well, it had been nearly two years since the Opera Populaire had been shut down, and she had lived there for the 6 months before that as well. The parlor she sat in now was small, and close to her own room, and Christine favored the pastel colors and flowers that filled it. It was safe and intimate, and she glanced back out the window beside her and over the garden. It glittered in the sunlight.

"I'm finished," she muttered, and Raoul laughed bitterly. He stood, and Christine chased after him with a glare as he moved to the tea stand on the far wall. "Do not laugh at me, Raoul! You know I am! I shall never perform again, not after... that."

"That," Raoul returned, two glasses in his hands, "was not as bad as you believe it was."

"Was it not?" she scoffed. Standing, she swept past him and his offered drink, and pulled a newspaper from where she had hidden it among some vases.

"Christine," Raoul sighed, but she ignored him, marching back and unfolding the paper with a snap.

> _"Christine Daae Has Fit On Stage. L_ _ast night, at the sophisticated_ Marlow Theatre _, troubled soprano Christine Daae was thrown into a fit of wildness and madness while on stage, attempting to cat-call out a selection from_ Faust _. Daae, who has been suffering quite remarkably from unfortunate spells since her unresolved involvement of the ill-fated_ Ill Muto _at the destroyed_ Opera Populaire _, confirmed her own madness by chortling out the notes and clawing at her own neck, calling in fear of unseen monsters that surrounded her."_

"I told them to not let you see that," Raoul snapped, snatching the paper from her hands.

"Why not? You think I am too weak to learn that truth?!" Following him, Christine continued to grab for the paper, but Raoul dodged her attempts. "You think I'm just as fragile as they say, even more so! I remember what happened last night, Raoul! God help me- I ..." Collapsing suddenly, Christine sunk to her knees, hugging herself and rocking back and forth as sobs choked her. Raoul, watching the sight, shook his head. He sat the paper and glasses aside, and approached Christine.

"I remember it all, Raoul. I remember how they booed me, how I was dragged off stage! I - I heard every note! But I could not stop them! I could do _nothing_!"

"Christine," the Vicomte called, kneeling next to her and taking her shoulders in his hands, "it makes no difference."

"NO!" she shrieked, throwing his hands off her. "Maybe not to you, but this is my _life_ , Raoul! I'm _nothing_ if I cannot sing, and now I cannot even do that anymore!"

"That's not true-!"

"What do you know of truth?!" Roaring, Christine shoved Raoul away from her and threw herself to the carpet, sobbing. Raoul, knocked backwards, sat silently, and waited.

"Raoul?" she finally shuddered, raising her head. Green eyes, wild with fright, darted around, finding him. "Oh, Raoul!" Lunging forward, Christine wrapped her arms around him, hugging the young man tightly. Raoul raised his hands and wrapped them around her as well, petting her head and whispering quiet mutterings into her ear.

"I'm frightened, Raoul," she whimpered, pressing her face into his shoulder. "I'm - I'm so frightened."

"He cannot hurt you, Christine. He would not. You," Raoul hugged her more tightly, "made your choice, and it was a terrible one, but he let us both go. The Opera House is destroyed, and the mob said he had already vanished."

"But I still feel him. Here, in here." With one hand, Christine bore into her heart. "I feel all the love I once had for him all over again, and it aches! It aches so terribly, Raoul! To think of him, alone. Afraid. Hunted. Oh-!"

Raoul held her close and sighed, turning his eyes to heaven. Then, as if it could possibly do anything to help them, he looked back down at Christine.

"I will stay with you, Christine, I will protect you. He cannot - will not - find you here."

After a moment, Christine blinked, and nestled against his shoulder again.

"I know, darling. I ... I know."

 

* * *

 

"Raoul, come in."

Glowering, Raoul entered the office, clutching his hat between his hands. From behind the oak desk, Philippe watched him, attention lowering to the organized spread of papers before him after a moment. Raoul glared, but took a deep breath in a feeble attempt to calm down his temper before he unleashed it at his older brother.

At one point, he and Philippe  _had_ been brothers. True, they never really saw eye to eye, but Raoul would take the distance that had been between them simply because of the years over the rift that Christine had caused. Now, he felt like little more than property to his older, a financial investment that, especially after the disaster that was last night, failed completely to make any kind of return. This meeting, he feared, was simply Philippe's chance to trim his properties.

"Have you heard about last night?" Raoul asked, and Philippe nodded. Then, sighing, he dropped his hands onto the papers and sat back, searching for any kindness in Raoul's eyes, past the resentment and fear.

"I'm sorry, Raoul," he said. "Really, I am. I know you love her, and I know you are trying everything you can to help her."

Raoul didn't blink.

"It would be easier," he replied evenly, "if I could actually use the fortune Mother and Father-"

"That is out of the question, Raoul, and you know it."

"But that does not mean it should be!" Raoul barked, storming forward. "You're right, I love Christine! And it's not fair she should continue to suffer just because it is me you do not trust!"

"Enough, Raoul," Philippe warned. "That discussion is closed, and has been, since you brought her here all that time ago."

"Christine has been living here over a year. Nearly two," muttered Raoul. "Can you not even face how long it's truly been, she's that revolting to you?"

"I don't hate Christine, and I never have. She has my admiration and my pity, but I do not hate her. In fact," sitting forward, Philippe rubbed his eyes underneath his glasses, and pulled a paper from under the ones on his desk, "I have been looking for ways to help."

Raoul, frowning, hurried forward and took the letter, realizing it was a telegram.

> _"Comte: I recommend Dr. Trest STOP Owns an asylum in New York with great success in similar cases STOP Pricey but successful STOP Good luck - Logan"_

"An asylum?!" Raoul screamed, crumbling the telegraph in his hand. "What kind of lying buffoon are you, Philippe?! You claim to not hate Christine, and then make arrangements for her to be sent to an asylum the next?!"

"I have told you already," Philippe stood, "I do _not_ hate Christine! Raoul, this Doctor, Doctor Trest, I have made other inquiries into him from sources that myself, and Mother and Father, _both_ trusted! They all echoed dear Logan here. The doctor comes with high success rates, especially in cases like Christine's! I have arranged nothing, I have only inquired, trying to find her some help."

"Christine does not need _help_!" Raoul snarled, turning to the door.

"Raoul-!" Standing, Philippe quickly cut him off, hands outstretched. "Raoul, _please_. You were there with her last night, you saw what happened! I cannot even begin to fathom the horrors you two went through at the opera house, or how it might have affected her. Look at her, Raoul! She tore at her own throat as if to rip it out! You cannot continue to deny that she is beyond your help!"

"I swore I would protect her, Philippe!" Raoul cried. Stepping back, he panted for breath, a terrifying desperation seeping slowly into him. "I - I _swore_ I would keep her safe!"

"And maybe, little brother," Philippe inched closer, "this is the best way! Trest does not require that his patients remain in the asylum, I'm sure you and him can figure out what is best for Christine. Because, despite it all, I still believe you may know this, if only you'll admit you need some help along the way."

Tears burned Raoul's eyes, and he blinked them away angrily.

"But America?" he hissed. "We do not speak English, we know no one over there, we own nothing over there! How could uprooting her and taking her to a place across an entire ocean help her?"

"Because you are doing so to seek help. I have an associate in New York, not far from Trest's offices. I have not consulted him about this yet, but I would be willing to request that he house you and Christine for however long it takes. If Trest can, in fact, help her."

"And what will it cost us?" Raoul scoffed. "You know, _brother_ , that we own nothing to our names."

"I will cover your expenses."

Blinking, Raoul nearly stumbled backwards.

"You - what?"

"Raoul, I want Christine to be well again. I want you two to be happy, and healthy, and together! This - this will be my last act to you, as a brother. I cannot afford anymore, but I pray, earnestly, that it works. That you two will finally be whole again."

No matter how long he might have been expecting the words, they drove into Raoul like a knife.

"So, this is it, then," he whispered. "Banishing us to another country to finally be rid of this blight upon the de Changy name."

"I hoped you could see that I am still doing this out of love."

"I know that," Raoul nodded. "And I don't miss that entirely. But this - Philippe... I don't know if I can."

"You can," Philippe stepped forward and took Raoul in his hands, aiming the younger man's face up at his own. "And you will. Because you love Christine, and you swore to protect her."

The tears fell, and Philippe pulled his little brother against his chest.

"I will provide what I can, and right now, this is the best I can give you. It's up to you, now, to make sure that Christine gets the best *you* can give."

Clutching Philippe tightly, Raoul pulled back, and clasped the hands that held his face tightly. He closed his eyes and sucked in one shuddering breath.

"Call your associate."

"You need to think on this," Philippe warned. "You won't make a clear decision right now, and you must discuss this with Christine."

Raoul chuckled bitterly, pulling Philippe's hands off him and wiping his tears.

"Of course, you're right."

"It's why I am the older," Philippe smiled, brushing one hand through Raoul's blond hair. Giggling, the younger swatted the hand away, collecting himself. "Go now. I'll expect your answer when you are ready to give it. Both of you."

Nodding, Raoul stepped around Philippe and to the door, pausing at it.

"Philippe?" The older turned back to him.

"Raoul?"

"Thank you."

"You know that's not necessary."

 

* * *

 

Raoul didn't ask Christine, not for several days. After the humiliation she suffered, the mental breakdown, the terrible visions, she was destroyed. Raoul watched her closely, as he always did, arriving before dawn to greet her for breakfast, and leaving well past midnight to assure she had drifted off to a restless sleep, but he saw no change.  
For her part, Christine was lifeless. Numb to all sensations and feelings, and oblivious even to Raoul's presence. The maids that watched her, along with the nurse who watched her health, confessed in hushed whispers that they had never seen her so, and many of them had been around for the last year of this... this mental anguish Christine was under.

And worst of all was that Raoul knew why. That terrible man, that monster, murderer, that... Phantom, he had done this to her. Wooed her, allured her, seduced her, manipulated her into friendship, companionship, and even love. He had spied on her, watched her, directed her and taught her, and slowly, ever so slowly, he destroyed her. Christine was terrified of a myth, a legend, a ghost. Raoul had never believed this man was anything beyond simply that, but while in the Phantom's lair, he learned better. No, the Phantom was still a man. A demented and twisted, evil man, but a man, flesh and blood and... and love. And Christine had loved him. They had shared a connection, an obvious bond, that suddenly, Raoul believed everything Christine had told him. About this angel of music that taught her, stayed with her, guided her. He believed everything she said about the ghost that haunted her and terrified her. The Phantom had gotten into her head, her soul, and yes, even her heart.  
And then, he had made her chose.

He had destroyed Christine, and it made Raoul's blood boil. He wanted to find the man, to unmask him, to see him hanged. He wanted this Phantom to die a thousand times for what he did to Christine, and what he continued to do to her.

It had started with her hearing, hearing things that weren't there, voices calling her name, melodies in the air. Then, it affected her vision. Christine trusted nothing, and no one. She began to lock up her things, and fly into terrified frenzies if she suspected someone had been watching her. At one point, she had covered all her mirrors and barred up her windows, but she still felt the eyes on her. And it hadn't helped that her career was suffering. The whole world, it seemed, chased after her like hounds, barking and biting and demanding the story. Who was that masked monster that kidnapped her? What happened? And why? The public trapped her, if not in the past with their constant badgering, than in the home. She had never seen Giry or Meg again, not since the fire. She had never seen the Opera House, not until the site had been gutted and building completely removed. The whole world, while she was locked in isolation, moved on without her, and Christine had no chance of catching up.

For a full year she hid. Raoul tried to comfort her, tried to be a pillar of strength and patience, but it broke his heart to do so. To watch her eyes dart around the room, and never knowing if she would wake from the spell or would hurt herself again in a mad rage. Christine's paranoia only planted the seeds of his own, but he tried. For her sake, he tried. For a full year he tried, but now, it officially seemed that there was nothing else for him to do.

He could not help her.

 ~ ~ ~

"Christine?"

"Hmm?" Bright-eyed, Christine pulled her attention from the window of the carriage, watching the country side bump along past them, and aimed it towards Raoul.

Under her gaze, he felt his rehearsals abandon him, and dropped his head.

"Raoul?"

"Christine, I - Philippe, that is... he may have found a doctor who can help you."

Sitting back roughly, she turned away from him.

"Christine, please!"

"No, Raoul!" she bit. "I will not see a physician!"

"Christine!"

"I've told you-!"

"Christine!" Suddenly, Raoul jumped on Christine, grabbing her wrists and wrestling her hands from her neck. Blinking at him when she stopped struggling, she looked at her nails. They had been cut short due to the habit she had developed, and touched the fresh scratches wrapped around her neck, on top of old scars. Throwing her hands off him, she turned back to the window, hugging her hands around herself. Raoul, sighing, sat back in his seat and aimed unfocused eyes out the other window.

 ~ ~ ~

"Who is he?"

Raoul blinked, and sat up, looking at Christine. She sat on the bench next to him near a pond on the de Changy Estate, her eyes focused on her folded hands, which tugged at each other in her lap.

"This doctor, Raoul, that Philippe found. Who is he?"

"His name is Trest," Raoul turned to her. "He's American, but Philippe has heard from many people in America that he trusts, and they all recommend him. He and his asylum has had great success-"

"An asylum?" Christine cried, staring up at Raoul in horror. She stood suddenly and stumbling out of his reach. "Raoul! How - how could you?!"

"We will not admit you!" Raoul stood slowly, keeping his hands extended towards her. "I will not admit you. Trest only manages the asylum. He sees patients outside of that as well! Philippe has a connection we could stay with in the city, and would only go to that place to visit Trest, never to stay. Christine, I will never admit you there, and I will never leave your side, no matter what he says."

Christine spun around and brought her fists to her mouth, biting on one knuckle. Raoul stood patiently behind her, lowering his gaze to the pond.

"Raoul, it - I don't think I could."

"I will be with you. We could even bring Fantine and Maria if you'd like."

"But - this man, he doesn't know! Raoul, everything that has happened, he doesn't know, he doesn't understand!"

Raoul stepped closer, taking the arms that held him in his hands.

"Christine, _we_  do not understand what happened ourselves! But perhaps we can, with this man's help!"

Emerald eyes sparkled up at him, and Christine dropped her head into his chest, gasping for breath. Patting her head, Raoul calmed her, rubbing her back under the shawl she wore.

"You do not have to accept his help if it frightens you too much," he whispered. "I would never push you. But Christine," he gently aimed her face up at his own, "how much longer do you want to suffer like this? It's been two years since the Populaire shut down. How much more can you take if this man can help us?"

"'Us'?"

"Well, of course I'll be going with you," he smiled, kissing her forehead softly. "We've got so little to loose, but all our lives ahead of us to gain! Why not at least take the chance?"

Turmoil swirling in her green eyes, Christine turned away from Raoul and towards the lake, stepping closer to it. Raoul waited, hands curling into anxious fists.

She turned to him.

"You'll stay with me?"

He hurried to her.

"You know I will."

Her eyes slipped closed, and Christine took a deep breath, finding his hands in her own. She cupped them and brought them to her lips, kissing the knuckles.

"Tell Philippe that I... I... you won't leave me?"

"Never, Christine."

"Alright." She nodded. "Alright. Tell Philippe."

 

* * *

 

Arranging passage for the two to America, as well as organizing their stay with Philippe's associate, an older bachelor named Macon, took a few days, and both Christine and Raoul were nearly out of their minds with stress and worry. Christine was terrified of the doctor, this Trest fellow, and what he might due to her. But Raoul was right. She had, they had both, suffered far too long at her own disillusions, and it was time to end the curse. Raoul, on the other hand, was more terrified of the traveling itself.

 ~ ~ ~

"Raoul? Raoul! Raoul, snap out of it! RAOUL!!"

Raoul kicked and thrashed himself awake, throwing the body that held him off, and scrambled off the side of the bed.

"Raoul," Philippe called, watching his little brother shoot to his feet and spin around, facing him in fear and panic. "It's only me, little brother. You're safe."

Blinking, Raoul pounded the butt of his hands into his forehead, and sank to his knees. Philippe stood and hurried for him, tentatively placing one hand on Raoul's back as the young Vicomte struggled to catch his breath. Wheezing and panting, he clutched himself tightly and Philippe whispered a steady rhythm of calm words into his ear.

"Relax, Raoul, relax," he repeated, wrapping his arms around Raoul's shoulders. The young man continued to tremble, muscles locked and beyond his control, but Philippe held him close. "You're not aboard _The Griffin_ anymore. And your ship tomorrow will not sink, Raoul. You'll both have safe passage."

As his lungs began to slowly loosen, Raoul screwed his eyes shut and leaned heavily into Philippe.

"Damn that... boat," Raoul hissed, and Philippe shifted his weight to hold him closer.

"It wasn't your fault," he said. "And they captured the pirates who did it. They can't hurt you anymore."

"You think not?" Raoul chuckled bitterly. "Damn..."

"You and Christine will arrive to America safely," Philippe said, raising one hand and combing Raoul's sweaty blond hair from his face. He should get it trimmed before the trip. "There haven't been pirates in these seas for ten years. And they would never attack a pedestrian vessel, you know this."

"It is not the pirates I am... I am afraid of..."

"Oh?"

"Well..." another bitter chuckle wheezed it's way out, "not... not entirely."

"And I've already assured you that they will not attack you." Steering Raoul away from his chest, who followed reluctantly, Philippe searched for his eyes. "So what else have you to fear?"

Raoul's grey eyes swirled with blue, and he dropped them to the carpet. His whole body tensing again, he leaned against Philippe's chest, choking back haggard breaths.

"You'll wear yourself out before tomorrow even gets here," Philippe gently teased, one hand patting his little brother's head. "Relax, Raoul. Your fears are in the past. They can not hurt you know."

"Philippe?" he gasped. "Shut up."

Releasing a large sigh that was bound to make lung-locked Raoul jealous, Philippe shifted his weight again and allowed Raoul to lean more fully into him.

"I was never good with other people," the older brother muttered. "Just... rest here. I'll wait until you are well again."

Raoul nodded his thanks mutely, reaching tired hands to half wrap around Philippe. Waiting, and wheezing, he sat there, soaking up the last comfort he may ever receive from his older brother. The fit would pass eventually, and, Raoul thought bitterly, it might wear him out enough to actually get some sleep. Though, judging by the terrors that had been plaguing him already, he doubted he'd enjoy it.

 

* * *

 

 "Are you ready?" Philippe asked, and Raoul turned to him, his eyes staying on the large ship they were meant to board. "Raoul-"

"I heard you," the younger bit, yanking Philippe's hand off his shoulder. He glared at the taller man briefly, then turned his attention inward and focused on taking in the largest breath he could, trying to practice those useless exercises the doctors Philippe had hired when Raoul returned to France had taught him, but they did nothing to help him. For several years he had suffered this pathetic infliction, whatever it was, and no one or practice had helped.

A particular thought had gone unsaid between the two men, but Raoul knew clearly that the last thing Christine needed was for her fiancé to be struck down by another pathetic fit of his own before they even made it to America. For her, he had to keep himself calm. At least, as calm as he could manage to appear.

"Christine doesn't know, does she?"

Raoul laughed, a strange sound that hissed a little at the rim. He should keep from laughing.

"I'll give you one guess," he bit. "And three guesses as to _why_."

"Raoul," Philippe rolled his eyes, and Raoul did the same, "she _needs_ to know! What if it happens again, and she has no idea how to help you? What if no one does?"

"I will be _fine_ Philippe!" Raoul snapped. "I'm not that terrified soldier anymore! I've got Christine to look after, and I _will_!"

Crossing his arms, Philippe lifted his chin and Raoul turned away.

"How can you do that if you cannot even-"

"Enough, Philippe!" Spinning back around, Raoul cut his hand through the air and fixed his older brother with a steady glare. His eyes flashed brown, and Philippe dropped his shoulders. "I would have _hoped_ you'd have some, in the least, _charitable_ words before we are both exiled half way across the world."

"Christine chose this," Philippe argued. "Do _not_ blame me!"

"I am not!"

"You just did!"

Throwing his hands up, Raoul paced away, digging his hands through his hair. Philippe put one hand in his pocket and dropped his head. His hat tapping against his thigh, the older blond glanced up at a passing carriage. The docks were full, as usual, but not too crowded. It was still early in the morning, the sun was just beginning to rise through the gray clouds that filled the sky, and Philippe wondered if it would rain later. He hoped it wouldn't, for his little brother's sake.

"Let's not argue, Raoul," he said softly, and Raoul chuckled and Philippe pretended not to hear how he coughed afterwards. Dropping his hands from his hips, he turned back to Philippe, something like guilt glinting in his eyes.

"You're right," he shrugged, and returned to his older. "I - I should be thanking you for all of this. Not... arguing."

"It's alright," Philippe lifted one hand. "I know you're more terrified than you'll admit."

"I am not."

Philippe smiled.

"Tell Christine," he instructed softly as he inched closer to his younger. "This is not a matter of pride, Raoul, your health is important! Not only to her but to yourself."

"And to you?"

"You know it is."

With a sigh, Raoul scrubbed at his face, glancing back at the large ship behind him. He let his eyes roam over it, absorbing every detail and nuance Philippe knew would be lost on him. He, after all, had never been a sailor. His memorization done, Raoul turned back to Philippe as a carriage neared them. The two men crossed to it and helped Christine out when she arrived, Philippe taking her things from the driver.

"Good morning, Christine," Raoul smiled, Christine's eyes drifting past him and to the large ship over his shoulder.

"Is that it?"

"Yes," Raoul turned to it. "Filled with other passengers heading for America."

"Just like us," she whispered, and Raoul touched her arm, messaging it.

"Yes, just like us. On to a new life and new health."

Christine nodded, her face falling.

"Mademoiselle," Philippe greeted, sitting her luggage aside.

"Monsieur," she offered a courteous but empty smile. "Thank you, for arranging this..."

"I want you to know, Mademoiselle," Philippe stepped closer, "that I did this all because I care about the both of you, and I earnestly hope you will find the help you need with Doctor Trest."

"Thank you," she grinned again. "I hope we can... as well."

Philippe and Raoul's eyes met for a moment, the whistle from the ship startling the younger.

"Well," he quickly plastered a smile on, "it seems we had best get aboard."

"Yes," Christine nodded, allowing Raoul to lead her towards the ship. Philippe called for a sailor to load Christine's things, and he did, the Comte watching the pair walk away. Suddenly, Raoul stopped, told Christine to stay, and turned. He jogged back to Philippe, calling for him.

"Raoul?"

"Phil," Raoul stopped before him. "Thank you."

Philippe smiled and offered one hand, Raoul slapping it away and throwing his arms around Philippe. The older laughed hugged him back.

"Be safe," he whispered. "And watch out for yourselves. I shall only be a line away, at all times. Macon has been asked to show you to the closet telegraph station once you arrive."

"Thank you," Raoul nodded, pulling away and meeting Philippe's eyes. "Really. Thank you."

"You know it doesn't need to be said."

"Well," Raoul shrugged. "All the same."

"Then, all the same... you're welcome."

Laughing, the two hugged once more, Philippe finally pulling Raoul off him.

"Hurry now, or it will leave without you."

"I know, I know." Turning, Raoul hurried back to Christine, waving goodbye to Philippe once again. Philippe waved. He watched the two head for the ship, clear their papers with the boarding crew, and climb aboard. He waited for the other passengers to board, the anchor to be pulled up, and the ship to turn out of the harbor. Then, before it turned completely, he saw Raoul run for the deck, and wave to him. Philippe smiled, and waved back.

After that, the ship slowly began its passage for America. And something inside Philippe knew he would never see his little brother again.

 


	2. One New Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The couple arrives in America, meet their host, and try to enjoy themselves before the real test begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have changed up a few small things in this canon recently.
> 
> \- One, this story takes place two years after the Opera Populaire was shut down.  
> \- Two, the Opera House didn't burn down, it simply shut down, mostly due to public rage after Piangi's death and Christine's kidnapping. The process did take about a month or so, and everyone held their jobs until then, but Christine's madness prevented her from performing and Carlotta had returned to Italy to mourn her late husband. So without any other options, it shut down.
> 
> Also, I apologize for the huge delay between updates. I try to work ahead and have another chapter finished before I post a new one, but I've been suffering block with this story. I'll update when I can.

It took, due to fortunate weather, less time than normal to reach America. The couple had spent most of their voyage in the tiny cabin Philippe had reserved for them, leaving only briefly to fetch a little something to eat when they figured they could handle it, but did their best to avoid any sights of the sea around them. Word, at some point, reached them that the moon would be full, and the skies clear, the night before they were expected to reach port. Anxious of the open air, but more eager than they would have liked to admit to leave the cabin, they joined the other passengers on deck. The sky was indeed clear, and the stars and moon sparkled on the inky seas that surrounded them.

"It's haunting," Christine breathed, tugged her shawl and Raoul closer. "But... beautiful."

Raoul took a deep breath, and looked up at the stars. Christine looked to him in worry, watching as he watched the lights above their heads. Since the morning of their departure, the shadow of dread and anxiety that had settled underneath his face had only lifted minutely a few times over the last 5 days, but now, against the black around them and with the soft lights of the cabin behind them, the shadow lifted, just a little. His eyes slipping closed, Raoul took a deep breath, filling himself with the salt and the air. Christine had never seen him at sea, and had heard, only in forbidden comment, of his service in the navy. It was a time of his life he didn't discuss, and had never enjoyed thinking about, much less talking about, but as he stood there, she could see the love and longing on his face. Tugging him closer, she leaned her head against his shoulder, and Raoul blinked down at her.

"We'll be arriving tomorrow," he said, and the redhead hummed against him. "In America."

"And Monsieur Macon will be there?"

"He should be."

"Even if we arrive early?"

"I'm sure Philippe has-"

"Excuse me, Madame?" A shy voice greeted, and the couple turned to their visitor. The woman who spoke to them, holding a child close, wore most everything she owned on her back, and glanced shyly up at the two well-dressed young people before her. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Madame, Monsieur, but some people here have heard singing coming from these cabins these last few days, and I was wondering, was it you?"

Christine blinked, and looked to Raoul. He shrugged and smiled at her, and Christine turned back to the woman.

"It was," she breathed, avoiding the woman's curious gaze. Her shyness was something Raoul would never embrace, and continuously caught him off guard. His Christine was fiery, but thoughtful and compassionate. She wasn't one for hiding from the stranger that asked about her gifts, at least, she hadn't been. Things change after two years, Raoul knew this well enough, but that didn't mean he would grow used to it.

"I didn't mean to disturb anyone..." Christine muttered, keeping herself close against his chest.

"Oh, it was not a bother, not at all!" laughed the woman, and Raoul smiled, meeting his fiance's green eyes. Lifting her head, she turned to the woman, who blushed. "Those who heard it, said it was much like hearing an angel... Madame, if your husband doesn't mind, could you sing for us? Something sweet and beautiful, on a beautiful night like this? If it's not asking too much..."

"Oh," Christine's face fell, and she shrunk under the attention. "I haven't sung in front of people in quite some time..."

"Come now, Christine," Raoul hugged her close. "You know better than that! The Madame is right. It's a beautiful night out. Please, my dear, just something." With gentle hands around her face, the Victome aimed her attention up at him. "Please."

Turmoil flashed across the redhead's face, even in the darkness, and Raoul watched her look to the woman again. She only smiled, and nodded her encouragement.

"I - I don't know..."

"You mustn't, Madame, if it's too much bother," the woman bowed her head in a strikingly maternal fashion. "I only thought I'd ask."

"No!" Stopped by Christine's call, the woman turned back to her. Christine looked to the woman, than to the others that had gathered close, and allowed a small smile to slip free. "Very well."

 

* * *

 

"This way, everyone, this way!" the woman cheered, leading Christine and Raoul to the front of the ship. Raoul giggled excitedly, taking Christine's hand and pulling her close as they followed the excited woman. Christine blushed, and leaned against him with a small smile. The crowd, which was huddled on the deck, gathered close, an anxious chatter spreading around them. Words like "singer," "soprano," and "French" bubbled up from the masses, Christine catching them all like darts into her wavering nerves. Raoul, however, tugged her hand tightly, and helped her step onto a small rising at the front of the ship. His face glowing, he offered her a broad grin, and Christine did her best to return it, unable to fully conceal the fear lurking underneath.

When she straightened, keeping Raoul's hand in her own, the deck grew quiet. With the lights to their backs, the sea was little more than a mass of dark shapes, their faces lost to the shadows, and what little mutterings they gurgled up where drowned up by the hum of the engines and the splashing of the ocean. As Christine took a deep breath, every far corner of the ship held its own, and the redhead glanced down to Raoul again. His eyes shining, he kissed her knuckles, and nodded. Releasing the breath she held, she slipped her eyes closed.

She felt the vibrations of the ship in the soles of her shoes, focused on them, and opened her mouth. 

A soft melody filled the air, the crowd leaning forward and grasping to every note. Christine's voice, though held back, was smooth and powerful, and Raoul, after a few words, smiled with tears in his eyes when he recognized the song. It was an old Swedish melody her father used to perform and sing for them. The melody hadn't been heard to his ears in nearly twenty years, and he wondered how long it had been hidden in her life. After a another beat, a few voices rose from the crowd, joining Christine's voice and providing the the depth she struggled to reach.

She sang on, and though the audience was captivated, Raoul could sense the hesitance still inside her. Whether she was focused on the words she sang or on chasing away the demons that seemed to creep into her world whenever she unleashed her voice, he couldn't tell. But she continued the sad, melancholy ballad just as evenly as she had begun, and Raoul was surprised by the tear that fell down his cheek. Silence followed the song, no one stirring besides to wipe their own tears from their eyes.

_"Anna! Anna!!"_ a few of the singers called, and Christine's eyes opening, she nodded. This time, when she opened her mouth, a more joyous tune rang free, and a majority of the crowd cheered at the familiar tune. Raoul himself laughed, leading them all in clapping along to the tune. Christine herself smiled, finally beginning to relax into the music she made.

Suddenly, another voice joined Christine's, and she nearly faltered in surprise. Raoul, too, straightened and craned his neck to see the source, something like panic creeping into his chest. That voice - he hadn't heard it in two years, and with it came images of darkness and candles and red ropes. He didn't have to search for the source very long, however, as the crowd parted and allowed for an older gentleman, a violin tucked under his chin, strode towards them. Raoul stared at the shadow, which concealed his face with a hood and hat, play and dance his way into the song and alongside Christine. Glancing up at her, Raoul noted that her eyes had opened, and were also staring at the figure. Her eyes glittered, and Raoul  watched her carefully. Her voice changed, then, something about it, but when it blended beautifully with the violin, he smiled, and released her hand so she could motion with it, fully unleashing her power. His panic, which he shoved back into submission, was unwarranted, it seemed, and Christine sang like she hadn't in months. Nonetheless, he kept his eyes on the stranger, especially when the sing ended and the audience applauded loudly.

Various cheers in different languages cheered and called for more songs and more instruments, and after a short scatter, another violin, a fiddle, and a trumpet joined the fray. Christine, laughing at the jolly-hearted commotion, and bowed to her public. After a few deep breaths, she released a song as joyful as the crowd, eliciting more cheers and dancing. 

Laughter filled the ship over atop the crashing waves, over even the lull of the engines, and before the party could get too out of hand - someone had introduced some illegal spirits - Raoul whisked Christine away to their cabin and, dropping her playfully on the cot, smiled down at her.

"Christine Daae, I think I should like to marry you," he laughed.

"You do?" She curled her nose. "How peculiar. I think I should like to marry you too!"

Raoul laughed again, and - still partially out of breath from carrying her to the room - kissed her. Christine curled herself around him, and pulled him closer. Their hearts hammered in unison, and the stole the breath from each other, gasping for air in the seconds they were apart.

"Raoul-!" she barked suddenly, pushing him away from her and sitting up. "There's - there's not a priest on board! We couldn't dare get married right now!"

Raoul saddened for a moment, before his eyes lit up and he scooted closer to Christine, taking her hand in his own.

"But there is a captain! And any captain can officiate a marriage!"

"Really?" she gasped.

"Really! Christine - shall I go fetch him?"

Christine hesitated, and Raoul watched all the joy and fire from her face sink far below, replaced with a glow of shame and embarrassment.

"Raoul," she pulled his hands into her own and kissed them, "I - I couldn't marry you! I frighten myself so, I could never do the same to you. My mind..."

Her plead went unfinished, but Raoul knew what she wanted to say, and it broke his heart so.

"Christine," he laughed softly, almost bitterly, and shook his head. "I do not care about that! I love you-"

"And I love you! But Raoul, I - I just can't. I can't, I'm sorry! I love you too much to let you throw your life away for someone like me!"

"Christine!" Raoul stood, Christine's eyes darting upwards to follow him. Then, sitting next to her, he took her face gently in his hands. "I love you, Christine, no matter what may happen to you! Whether this Trest man helps you or not, I shall never leave you and never stop loving you!"

Green eyes shimmered with tears, Raoul feeling his own swell, and she leaned against him.

Her hands, strong but gentle, found his own where they cupped her face, and held them. He could feel her shiver, the falling tears wetting his hands that stroked her cheeks dry.

"I love you too," she whispered, "but I wish you wouldn't so."

"Well, there's no changing that now, I'm afraid. We'll just have to find a priest in America, shall we?"

"I'm sorry," she muttered, and Raoul pulled her close, kissing her forehead.

"You've nothing to apologize for, my darling. Now, get some rest. You out did yourself tonight, though, Christine, you sang beautifully."

Christine was beautiful, her face clear and sharp and hair long and red. Raoul knew she was beautiful, he knew she was the most beautiful woman on the whole planet earth, but she continuously dazzled him how her smile could make her even more so. He missed her smiles terribly, like a man missed the sun.

Smiling, Christine laid down on her cot as instructed, allowing Raoul to wrap the blanket around her.

"Tomorrow we will be in America," he whispered, kneeling by her.

"America," she smiled, and the young Vicomte felt his heart flutter. Pulling himself away reluctantly, Raoul backed up and sat down on his own cot heavily, watching her rest.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow they would meet Trest, and see if they had any sort of future together.

 

* * *

 

They arrived at port right before sun set, and patiently waited to disembark among the other crowd. Many of them, in the eagerness to leave and hurry to their own lives, ignored the young lovers, as if they had forgotten about their own merriment the soprano had given them purely from her own kind heart. Raoul kept his arm around Christine, scanning the mass that churned up against them and keeping a careful eye on the bustling dock they would be boarding. He did not know who this Macon man was, what he looked like, or how to identify him, but continued to search hopefully. Maybe a heavenly sign would point out the man he searched for, or maybe their chaperone would recognize him. When the whistle was blown, the crowd began to sway and press towards the exit, bringing Raoul and Christine with them.

Their first look at New York was one overflowing with people, a churning whirlpool of all manner of languages and people, hustling around and rushing about their business. Carts spilled their contents nearly onto the street as they were hauled this way and that, and the uproar drowned out even the crashing waves of the coast and groaning of other ships. The wind was cold and biting, and the clouds blocked out the setting sun in dismal grays. Winter was usually the worst time to travel, especially by sea, but it seemed the cold front was right at their heels, and threatened to shadow them if their delay lasted much longer.

"Oh, Raoul," Christine muttered, grasping his arm. Raoul, gripping her more tightly, lead her down the gangplank, which wobbled under their weight. Finally stumbling onto the street, they were forced to the edge of the pier by the crowd, searching desperately for where their things would be unloaded. "Any sign of the Monsieur?" Christine asked, craning her neck and searching the throngs.

"None, and we don't even know who we are looking for!" Throwing his hands into the air, Raoul huffed, finally finding the sailors carelessly tossing the luggage into piles. "Ah!" He pulled Christine that way, making sure she was behind him, and called for the sailors. "Excuse me," he waved, "are these from the cabins?" The men muttered something back that Raoul recognized, but did not understand.

"Raoul," Christine tugged on him, "they don't speak French!"

"They must, they are the same sailors that we boarded with! Excuse, me, Monsieurs? Monsieurs - please! Oh! Christine, wait here," he took her by the shoulders and steered her a few steps away from the sailors. "I will see if they've gathered our things yet."

"But - Raoul!"

"I'll be right back!" he called over his shoulder, running back for the gang plank. "Don't move!"

As Raoul rushed out of sight, Christine gripped herself tightly, one hand rising to her neck. Green eyes blown wide in panic, they darted around the sea of brown and skin sweeping past her in a dizzying speed. "Raoul?" she cried, stepping backwards. "Raoul! Raoul - please! RAOUL!!"

"Christine?"

Nearly having sunk to her knees, Christine blinked, head raising and looking around. A man, older than her, and in a gray bowler hat and thick, long mustache, hurried to her, and Christine recoiled. "Monsieur?!"

"Christine Daae?" the man smiled, slowing as he approached. "I'm Monsieur Macon, The Comte sent me to fetch you!"

"Monsieur Macon?" she stared. "Is it really you?"

"It is, Mademoiselle," smiled the man, taking her hand and kissing it. She noticed how his mustache tickled and how wet his lips were. "Where are your things? Are they here somewhere?"

"I - I don't know," Christine followed Macon to the pile of suitcases and chests. "Raoul went to fetch -" Ignoring her, Macon spoke with the sailors in the strange language, locating their things. "Are these them?"

"Yes!" she hurried to his side, turning over a chest and finding her name printed on it. "Yes, yes this is one of them! There is one more of mine, and another of Raoul's. Oh - Raoul!" Spinning, Christine searched the vessel desperately. "He had gone back on board, Monsieur, to search for our things! We must find him!"

"Mademoiselle," Macon laughed, taking the other suitcase and motioning his carriage boys towards him, "I should rather get you home quickly to rest after your travels."

"But-!"

"I will send someone to wait for Raoul, don't worry," Macon laughed, taking her arm in his hand. "Please, come with me-"

"No!" she cried, yanked herself free and stumbling away from him. "I will not leave him!"

"Christine-!"

"Christine!

_...Christine..."_

Spinning around, Christine quickly found him, Raoul rushing into her arms.

"Raoul! I was terrified we would leave you behind!"

Stunned, Raoul frowned at her.

"Leave me behind? Why would you - Monsieur?"

"Monsieur Raoul," Macon growled, nodding his head with a stiff jerk. "I suggest we get home quickly, now that _I_ have found your things. Come."

"Monsieur Macon," Christine whispered to Raoul as the mustached man turned and headed for his carriage.

"He seems pleasant," muttered Raoul, offering his arm for Christine. "Welcome to America, then."

"Yes," Christine smiled, leaning against him. "Welcome to America, my darling."

 

* * *

 

 

Macon was a quiet man, they realized, and lived in a rather dismal looking flat. It was dark brick on the outside, and dimly lit in the inside. The many windows that filled the front of the apartment were blocked out with thick curtains, to keep out the noise, Macon had explained. The apartment was surrounded by other buildings, so only two sides had windows, and the back side faced a narrow alley. What accessories the space had were few and far between, and Macon told them he didn't keep his own carriage often, so anywhere they'd had to go within the city would be on foot. Relaying the household schedule, he showed them to their room. Their single room. 

"Monsieur-!" Raoul chased after Macon, who turned to him gruffly on the stairs that lead from the front door to the upstairs. "Christine and I cannot share a room. We're merely engaged." 

"Is Philippe as stingy with money as he always is?"

Raoul blinked, and straightened. "I would not describe him as such, Monsieur!"

"So he splurged a little and purchased two cabins for you and your 'fiancé' in passage over here?"

"No, I'm afraid he did not. But that does not mean-!"

"Then explain the difference between that cabin and this," Macon replied, motioning to the room up the stairs behind them. "I've heard how closely you and the Mademoiselle have been living in the two years, Monsieur. At least I have granted you _two_ beds."

"Philippe would have never allowed for this!" Raoul cried as Macon lumbered down the stairs.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur, did the Comte not realize that expenses have gone up? He shall have to send over more payment if you are so eager to separate yourself from your pretty little lady."

"Raoul," Christine muttered from behind Raoul, and he cut through the air with one hand in anger, ignoring the redhead.

"This is absurd! I will send him a wire immediately! He would _not_ stand for this, and neither will I!"

"As you wish, Monsieur," Macon shrugged and allowed Raoul to storm past him down the rest of the stairs and for the front door. "I trust you have American currency for the office, and are able to find your way to the telegraph station. And translate your message so the operator can send it."

Raoul, the remark giving him pause where he stood at the door, dug his fingernails into his palms.

"No? Well then, Monsieur," Macon walked past Raoul and to the door, twisting the lock. "I bid you a goodnight. Tomorrow we see Trest about your 'fiancé'." Macon smirked at Raoul as he passed, patting his shoulder a few times and chuckling his way back up the stairs. "Mademoiselle," he smiled, taking her hand and bowing low, pressing a wet kiss onto it. "Though, I imagine, not for long." Casting a smirk at Raoul over his shoulder, Macon disappeared into his own room, locking the door behind him.

Christine turned back to Raoul, who looked very close to destroying something.

"Raoul," she addressed softly, Raoul unleashing an enraged growl and tearing at his hair. "Darling, please."

"This is unacceptable!"

"Don't carry on about it," she said softly, descending down the stairs and touching his arm. "This will not last long."

"But he _dare_ insult us like that? We, his guests? Someone my brother is _paying_ for him to care for?!"

"You heard him, perhaps the Monsieur has fallen on hard times-!"

Tearing away from her, Raoul marched into the nearest room he found, discovering it to be the dining room, and filled with expensive glass and chinaware.

"Do you think he has fallen onto hard times, Christine? Do you really think so?"

Christine, having followed him, leaned against the door frame, her eyes downcast.

"There's little to be done right now," she muttered. "Let's just go rest."

"What, together?"

"We have little other option," the redhead replied, gently creeping to him and touching his tight fist. "Please. We can revisit this tomorrow, when we are feeling better."

"We meet Trest tomorrow," Raoul sighed, smoothing down his hair. "We should get some rest before then, yes." Letting out another sigh, Raoul offered his hands, and she took them, holding them against her chest. "You're right. I'm sorry, darling. Let's head upstairs now. You - you go change, I will be up shortly."

"Alright," Christine grinned, allowing Raoul to kiss her forehead. Turning, she slowly walked back upstairs, Raoul following and watching her. She smiled down at him again as she closed the door and Raoul looked around again. The street was loud outside, but the house quiet and muted, as if underwater. It was a feeling Raoul knew well, and he rubbed his face, chasing away the nightmares that threatened to follow the familiar feeling. The apartment was quickly growing dark as the sun set, and Raoul considered poking around and giving himself a tour, but bed was calling his name. His body, while on high alert in the new city, longed for the chance to reclaim some of the rest it lost in the last 6 days, and to sleep without the rocking of the sea threatening to drag him once again under its surface. So, he sighed, rubbed his hair again, and turned up the stairs.

At least, he noted, Christine seemed to already be close to sleep when he crept into the room, and they had a little space between them. Then, he smiled with an idea.

 

* * *

 

A few moments later, and he and Christine had moved a flexible screen from somewhere in the house into their room, somehow keeping their giggles quiet enough to not wake Macon, and moved their beds around so they could screen off most of the room. They could see each other from the foot of their beds, however, and Raoul flopped into his own, craning his neck to smile at Christine.

"Well," he giggled, Christine doing the same and grinning at him, her arms folded under her head. "It's no attic, but I could imagine having a picnic here."

"Raoul," she giggled, shaking her head. "I think that sounds delightful! But it's already so late, isn't it? We shouldn't dare wake the entire household!"

"Oh why not?" Raoul stood up, sitting on the floor near her bed and curling his hands up onto it. He reminded her of a begging puppy, and she scooted closer to him, her red curls falling around her shoulders gracefully. "Come Christine, we've no idea what time it truly is, our own clocks are somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic! The least Macon could have done was behave as any gentlemen would have and offered us something to eat, and he didn't! We've already taken matters into our own hands," he wiggled the screen near his feet for emphasis, "I think we could scramble together a little something to eat!"

"I don't know," she shook her head again. When she looked up back, Raoul's face was serious.

"Very well then, I'll fetch it myself."

"Raoul-!" Christine scrambled up and chased after Raoul as he quickly tiptoed out the door. Grabbing his hand, she tried to hold him back, but only followed him onto the landing instead. "Please - you'll get us in trouble!"

"Only if we get caught," he whispered, pressing one finger to her lips. "Now, keep quiet if you can, little Lotte!"

Into the kitchen they giggled, tiptoeing around and searching for the correct room. They found it at some point, while hiding from the maids and servants as if they were wanted criminals, and began scouring the cupboards. In no time, they had found a plate, stacked it high with fruits, some snacks, and a little bit of cold pork and chicken the kind - and wildly bewildered - cooks gave them, and hurried back upstairs. Ripping the blankets and sheets off their beds, they laid them on the floor, moved the screen so a little more space was accessible, and split up their picnic between them with all the regalia fitting a meal prepared for royalty.

"I think Macon might have us kicked to the street," Christine giggled, and Raoul shushed her.

"We were feeding ourselves, Christine, it's basic human needs! Now, my fine lady, a toast."

Christine cupped her mouth before she laughed out loud at her fiancé, who held up a single grape in the absence of a wine glass. As soon as she collected herself, Christine picked up an orange and held it out, Raoul snickering at it.

"What shall we toast to?" her eyes sparkled and she wiggled her eyebrows. Raoul, whose grin widened, lifted his chin.

"To us."

"Monsieur?" frowned Christine, sitting up quickly.

"Christine, we were one word away from being married only last night! And tomorrow we will meet Trest, and see what he can do to help us. We are the closest we have been in a very long time to our happy ending, and look at us. Locked away like captives, and scouring for our own food. But together all the same, and surviving. We've survived Hell, Christine, side by side. And we will survive more, just the same. So, my darling Lotte, to us."

Tears pricked her eyes, and Christine smiled. Tossing her red curls behind her shoulders, she laid back down and offered her orange for a toast. "To us," she smiled, tapping the fruits together.


	3. One Old Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macon's true nature is revealed, and the couple finally meets the infamous Doctor Trest.

Macon was hurried into their room the next morning via the servants, already quite upset with the couple for interrupting his morning routine. However, the sight before him gave him pause.

The borrowed screen remained where it was, the plate and food scraps were piled nearby, and Raoul and Christine laid on the floor, their arms wrapped around each other around the screen, soundly asleep. Macon, blinking, scowled down at them.

“Eating in the bedroom," he snapped, startling the two awake, "is generally frowned upon, Monsieur and Mademoiselle!”

“Oh, Monsieur," Raoul blinked, uncurling his arms from Christine and stiffly sitting up. She sat up as well, rubbing her eyes and trying in vain to cover up a yawn. "I -" Raoul looked down at the plate that laid near his head, then to Christine, who laughed at him. Her red curls fell over her face and shoulders as she bowed it to hide her rudeness, but Raoul’s eyes sparkling at her. The young Vicomte aimed the most apologetic smile towards Macon that he could given the scenario, which wasn’t very helpful. "Apologies, Monsieur, but you'll find we were both quite starved last night.”

“And the cook, I suppose, encouraged this childish behavior?”

“Well, she provided us a little of it," he shrugged, motioning to the plate with the hand he was not using to support himself.

“Though I admit,” Christine sat up fully, covering herself with a blanket, “I think we gave her a rather poor impression of the French.”

“I thought," Macon growled. “That infernal wrench has stolen from me for the last time!” Suddenly, the fat man turned on his heel and marched away, the servants he left behind swapped one quick look of horror. Raoul and Christine, who frowned at each other briefly, stood and chased after Macon, Christine delayed as she straightened her robe.

“Monsieur-!" Raoul called, pausing momentarily for Christine to catch up, the two hurrying down the stairs. They could already hear Macon around the corner and yelling quiet loudly at the poor woman.

“Monsieur - please!”

The terrible English shouting continued, and Christine rushed for the door, but Raoul held her back.

“No - keep your distance!” he instructed, their attention snapping back to the kitchen when a loud crash sounded from it.

“Monsieur-!” Raoul cried, bolting for the door instead, but it swung open before he could reach it. Macon, his hand locked rather violently around the poor cook’s elbow, who fought and struggled back, dragged her down the hall and towards the couple.

“Monsieur - enough of this!” Christine barked, planting herself between the two and the front door.

“Christine -!”

“Out of my way, Mademoiselle! This filthy woman needs to be taught a lesson!”

“Don’t you dare hurt her you evil monster!” the redhead cried, her head falling in shock. She hurlted forward suddenly, wrestling Macon’s grip off the woman, the mustached man struggle with them both.

Another pair of hands quite suddenly gripped his arm in a lock, and he spun around to face the flaming eyes of Raoul, who wrenched the arm away from the woman.

“As she said,” he growled, “you will not dare hurt her!”

Macon glared at Raoul as Christine finally pried his hand off the cook, pawing her behind herself and again planting herself between the cook and Macon. Finally leaving Raoul’s eyes, Macon turned to them, and ripping his arm from Roaul’s hands, faced the women. He drew his shoulders back as Christine held her arms open, shielding the woman behind her completely.

He bit at them both in English, Christine blinking and turning back to the woman when she cursed in response. The two carried on, spitting and cursing at each other, Raoul and Christine’s eyes darting back and forth between them.

“She didn’t mean to disrespect you-” Christine objected, stepping towards Macon, hands at her neck, but he pushed her aside and grabbed the woman again. Raoul, who gathered up Christine quickly, chased after the two as Macon once again dragged the woman towards the door.

“She was only trying to help us,” he argued. “It was our own fault! Not this poor Madame’s! Monsieur! Monsieur!”

It was too late, however, as Macon tossed the cook down the front steps, they exchanged a few more curses, and he slammed the door on her.

“Monsieur that was barbaric!” Raoul shouted, turning on the man as he turned from the door and back towards the stairs. “All she did was offer us some scraps of food! It was far more than you did!”

“She did nothing wrong!” Christine added, hands thrown to her sides in angry fists.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur, Mademoiselle, but is this your residence?” the mustached man growled, putting his hands on his hips and tilting his head. Christine, feeling the anger build up inside Raoul, inched before him, ready to hold him back from the upcoming fight.

“No,” Raoul advanced as predicted, bumping into Christine but squaring up Macon over her shoulder, “but I know cruelty when I see it! And I would consider it a miracle any of your servants have remained! In fact, had I a home of my own, I’d buy them all from you this instant!”

Suddenly, Macon charged, his hand raised and ready to strike, but Christine spun around, her arms outstretched, and glared up at the taller man, closing the remaining space between them. Macon stopped, blinked down at her, and a sick, twisted smile grew across his face.

“Well,” he pinched her chin with his finger and thumb, giving it a little shake before she threw her hand off him, “it looks like one of you has some spirit left. As for you, Vicomte,” his eyes turned up to Raoul, who bristled and chin lifted, “you are nothing more than a spoiled child, who knows nothing of hardship besides your little wrench here being heartbroken by a myth! I owe your brother only as much loyalty as he can pay me for, but I certainly owe you nothing!”

Roul refused to flinch first when silence settled between the three, understanding fully how important it was to stand his ground in the enemy's territory. Christine stayed between them, arms outstretched, and focusing on Raoul’s presence behind her. Her green eyes flashed up on Macon, however, daring the other man to advance closer to her or her fiance.

As for Macon, he pulled his head up slowly, smiling down upon them must like a tiger having trapped a fawn, and sweeped himself quite suddenly backwards, motioning towards the stairs in a low bow. Weary, the couple was reluctant to move, especially back upstairs to their prison, but found their urge for solitude and to escape the reach of this vile man stronger, and inched towards the stairs. Raoul pushed Christine ahead, glaring evenly and sharply at the man as he passed. But Macon was a faster, and his hand flew suddenly,  gripping the back of Raoul's neck and yanking him close. Christine cried out and threw herself on the hold, trying to wrestle the two men apart, but Macon only laughed at her attempts and pushed her back with his other arm.

“And I'd keep a careful eye on your little… 'fiancé', Vicomte, if you dare disrespect me again! People don't often believe the insane, and she’s simply another refugee in a sea of thousands without you!”

“Demon,” Raoul hissed, hands closing around the wrist that held him if for nothing else but to keep them from flying at Macon’s face.

He, however, only smiled further, and tugged Raoul closer.

“Do we understand each other?”

Sucking in a deep breath and clenching his jaw, Raoul felt himself shake with anger, but kept his voice even. It wasn’t the first time he had stared eye to eye with a monster, though this time, his mask was invisible.

“Yes," he sneered,  and Macon nodded.

“Good.” With a satisfied grin, he released Raoul and patted his cheek twice, Raoul throwing the hand off him. Stepping backwards, Macon looked them both, especially Christine, over, who clung to Raoul and glared at the mustached man. "You had better get dressed, my dear. You've got an asylum to visit.”

“Upstairs, Christine, now," Raoul whispered, gathering her in his arms and driving her around the bannister and upstairs. They could both feel Macon’s eyes on their backs as they hurried towards their room, and hurried that much faster.

“Raoul - did he hurt you?”

“No," Raoul lied, shutting their door behind him. "No, I'm fine. Just… upset.”

“That vicious, vile demon!” she spit, sitting heavily on the edge of her bed, hands gripping the blankets in white knuckled fists. “What kind of monster are we trapped with?!”

“Christine," Raoul gasped, moving to her and sitting beside her swiftly "You must not say such things!”

It was as if Raoul had changed his face completely, and Christine stared at him, green eyes bouncing back and forth between his own gray ones as she recoiled slowly from him. “What? How can you say that? You heard what he said! What he just did!”

“Because Monsieur Macon is our host, and we paid him a great disservice sneaking around behind his back like we did.”

“But the poor cook-!”

“That was a businessman settling his affairs, nothing more, and none of our business. Christine," he forced a dry chuckle, “you must try to relax! Our visit will not go well if you are so tense!”

“No,” the redhead shook her head and stood, stepping across the small space and leaning gently on the paper screen. Raoul watched her, his breath hitching. Finally, she spoke up again. “You don’t need to protect me, Raoul,” she turned back to him, and he frowned. “I heard what he said, but I’m not afraid of him.”

“Not afraid - my sweet, he didn’t say anything to -”

“Don’t lie to me, Raoul,” she crossed back for him and sat down, taking his hands in her own. “I beg you, do not lie to me. Philippe is paying him well enough to leave us alone, and is paying the doctor. If anything should happen to me, I need only tell Trest, and I’m sure he would tell Philippe. They must be discussing our fee with each other, right?”

“Yes,” the Vicomte muttered, turning the frown that darkened his face away from her. She, however, reached forward and caressed his cheek, aiming his face back to her own.

“Good. Then please, try not to let Macon upset you so. He just likes to make us afraid, like any other nasty old man.”

“Christine Daae,” smiled Raoul around a sigh, his grin sparkling at her, “how did you ever grow so brave?”

“I spent a lot of years chasing away ghosts, and keeping Meg calm from their stories. Real men frighten me much less than they once did.”

 

* * *

 

Macon was all smiles as the trio piled into the carriage, beginning their journey to the asylum. The institute wasn't within the city, but quite some distance outside of it, far into the woods and away from any prying eyes. A river, deep and quick, rushed down the edge of the property from the mountains, and had already threatened to collapse the bridge the city had built over it several times. Raoul eyed it wearily as the carriage bumped its way over the stone bridge and over the river, eager to ignore the invasive gaze of their host.

“So Christine,” Macon voiced, and Christine sighed, keeping her eyes pointed azily out the window.

“Yes, Monsieur?” Her attention never left the woods they passed, and Raoul couldn’t help himself but smirk at her proudly.

“Tell me about this 'Phantom of the Opera'-”

“Monsieur!” Raoul gasped, his and Christine spinning on him. “That’s highly inappropriate. There's nothing to tell! The stories, Monsieur, were exaggerated, even back home.”

“The stories, Monsieur, were the most exciting thing this coastline has seen since the war ended.”

“They were?” Christine frowned, sitting upright.

“Oh, most certainly,” Macon smiled. “A young ballerina chosen to be leading soprano? Replacing a rather pompous woman that this 'Opera ghost' had tried to kill? Rumors of the same ghost's affections being obsessively focused on said rising star, and being completely behind her climb to fame?”

“Monsieur-!”

“And then dropping a chandelier on the entire company? Consuming the Opera House in flames? Kidnapping his prized flower-”

“That's quite enough!” Raoul snapped. “As I said, Monsieur, the rumors were grossly exaggerated! Nothing like that really happened.”

“The Opera Populaire, for one,” Christine muttered, crossing her arms across her chest and lifting her chin at the other man, “did not burn down. It was another full season before shutting down for legal reasons.”

“Spectral reasons?”

“Legal reasons. The people of Paris were upset at the number of accidents that had fallen the Opera House in its last year, and support was pulled. It’s simple as that. As for the rest, the rumors were exaggerated.”

Silence filled the space, Christine turning herself back to the window.

“So you don't carry his bastard then?”

“Monsieur!” both snapped in shock. Macon lifted his hands and turned his face away.

“I am only trying to dispel the rumors-”

“The Opera Ghost is dead!” Christine cried suddenly, eyes cutting into Macon. “He is _dead_ Monsieur, dead and buried! No more chandeliers will be dropped, no more 'prized flowers' kidnapped, and no more fires set! He is _dead_!”

The others blinked and Christine turning angrily away from them and to the window with a huff.

“And I would greatly prefer, Monsieur, that he remained so!”

Raoul pulled his eyes from Christine and aimed them at Macon, burning into him.

“Trest will ask you similar question,” the man said gently. As Raoul moved to object, he lifted his hands again, but in a sign of truce this time. “He will need to know what really happened, rumors or not.”

“Then I will answer _his_ questions,” Christine replied. “Not yours.”

 

When they arrived at the asylum, Raoul eyed it up and down, waiting for Macon to climb out of the carriage. It was a massive, white brick building, and covered with bars and frosted glass. The fence that encircled it was tall and spiked at the top, and stretched some distance into the property in either direction.

“It is a prison,” Christine breathed, for it very much resembled one, and Raoul took her hand and helped her descend to the gravel driveway beneath the carriage.

“It's that way for the patient's safety,” he lied, but Christine did not look at him. A man, young and dressed in white clothing, approached them from the main gate, but Macon cut him off. They talked for a few moments, and Macon summoned Christine towards them. Raoul followed her.

Macon introduced her to the other man, whose name was Isaac. He spoke fluent French and English, and would be their translator for their visits. Isaac, after greeted them with a pinned smile, retreated to the man gate, the trio watching as a group of three men hauled it open for their entrance.

“I will be waiting for you with the carriage,” Macon muttered. Christine whispered her thanks and took Raoul's arm, heading for the gate. Raoul's other arm, however, Macon hooked.

“See that this doesn't take long,” he warned. “These carriages do not come cheap.”

“The Comte de Changy thanks you for your sacrifice,” Raoul snarled, yanking his arm free. Then, joining Christine, they headed inside.

 

The inside of the building was tight and closely packed, thick walls separating the structure into thin hallways. Isaac lead them inside and down the maze, the couple seeing very little of the building past the narrow corridors. The floor was tiled black and white, and everything was dreadfully plain.

“Do not be upset,” Isaac smiled. “We have to keep things plain for the patients. Many of them are unstable and potentially dangerous. Just about anything could set them off, but do not fear. We are not as sorrowful as our walls look!”

“How many are dangerous?” Christine asked.

“Not many, but the Doctor never refuses a patient, so we often get the ones other facilities refuse or cast out.”

“Is my fiance safe?”

“Oh definitely,” Isaac smiled. “We have plenty of capable guards and nurses here to restrain any dangerous outbursts, and have designed the building for safety. That's why the walls are so thick and hallways so narrow. It's hard to start an angry mob when you cannot even stand two men shoulder to shoulder.”

Christine and Raoul shared a look of concern, Isaac motioning them into an open parlor.

“Right this way,” he smiled. “This is where our guests wait. I'm afraid you won't meet with the doctor in his office, he keeps it within the patient's wings for closer observation. But you'll have full privacy here. I'll go fetch him. Monsieur, Mademoiselle.” Bowing, Isaac hurried off, disappearing behind a heavy wooden door.

Christine and Raoul looked around the small parlor. It had a few chairs, a small table, and some thin, tall windows above their head and far out of arms reach.

“For security,” Raoul muttered, eyeing the windows.

“I don't like this place,” Christine shuddered, curling into his chest. “It feels - I feel watched! Like eyes, everywhere!”

“Christine- Christine!” Raoul calmed, taking her shoulders gently in his hands.

“Is it happening again?” she whimpered, eyes wide with fear.

“No, no this time I feel the same,” he replied slowly. “It's just the nature of a place like this, don't worry. We're safe here, and I will not allow them to separate us, not for anything, just like I promised.”

“I know that,” she whimpered, leaning into his chest.

“It's alright, my darling,” he patted her head and released a heavy sigh. “I will not leave you, Christine.”

“Christine?

_...Christine?”_

The redhead tensed, her head flying up and around at the new voice that entered the space.

A gentleman stood there, hair peppered with all shades of gray, thin mustache the same, and handsome wrinkles on his face. He wore a doctor's coat and round glasses, and glanced back at Isaac at his elbow.

“ _Oui_?” Christine asked, and the man smiled. Stepping forward, he offered his hand.

“Doctor Trest,” he said simply, and Christine returned her own trembling one. “Mademoiselle Christine Daae?”

“ _Oui_ ,” she nodded, allowing him to bow with her hand still cradled gently in his own.

“And Raoul? Monsieur Vicomte de Changy?”

“ _Oui_ ,” Raoul nodded, shaking Trest's hand himself. The hand, like most every other part of the man, was slender but strong, Raoul noting the strength within his grasp.

“Wonderful,” he clapped his hands, motioning for Isaac to step forward. He muttered to Isaac, and  Isaac smiled up at the couple.

“He welcomes you, Monsieur and Mademoiselle, and hopes we can help you both work through whatever has happened.”

“ _Merci_ ,” the two responded, and Trest's grin grew. He motioned for them to sit, and they did. He muttered again to Isaac, who stepped forward.

“Mademoiselle, Monsieur, I will be translating all of the Doctor’s words directly, so please allow me to speak for us both together.”

They nodded, and Isaac smiled.

“Fantastic. So, Mademoiselle, please, tell us everything.”

 


	4. One Voice Heard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Phantom of the Opera, is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short update for Essey, who left an incredibly encouraging comment and remotived me to keep chipping away at this story.

“And this man is dead?”

Christine blinked, and hugged herself more tightly, her hands reaching for her neck.

“I don't know,” she shook her head.

Raoul, who sat in the chair next to her, glanced back up to the window of Trest’s lounge, where they must have been trapped for an hour at least so far, possibly more, considering how high the sun was in the sky. Christine had done most of the talking, retelling the story of her wicked “Angel of Music”, leaving room for Raoul to interject when he had something to offer, though it wasn’t often. He kept quiet for most of their time, waiting in the wings and learning all the things she had never fully told him.

Of course, most of his ignorance was his own fault, always pushing away her account of what had been happening to her and insisting her “opera ghost” didn't exist. It was a regret he would, perhaps one day, make up for, but it would take years. He didn't even let himself consider if his dismissal of it all had attributed to what Christine was suffering, but had a feeling the Trest had already considered it, and was too devastated to think on it himself.

“The mob said he was already gone. They never found any sign of him... The last I saw him was in his - underneath the Opera house.”

Raoul's eyes flicked up to Isaac, who was quietly translating into Trest's ear. He must have been exhausted, but Raoul envied him. He knew both him and his fiancé's anxiety would be relieved, even a small bit, if they could speak with Trest directly, but for the meantime, this arrangement would have to work.

“Well, besides what you think you have seen or heard of him since -  _ Don Juan _ ,” Isaac repeated the doctor.

“I can't be sure it has really been him.”

“Did he not skill himself in making his voice heard though he remained invisible?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And you often heard his voice when no one else did, correct? Or saw him around the  _ Opera Populaire _ , yes?”

“I - yes.”

“Forgive me, Mademoiselle,” Trest sat forward and smiled gently, and unnatural look for the thin-faced man, who resembled a skull with loose strings of flesh strung over it, “but I must separate fact from fiction here. I do not doubt you, and I do not want to be difficult.”

Waiting for Isaac to catch up, Trest continued.

“But I think first and foremost, we must be assured that this opera ghost is dead.”

“But we cannot," Raoul argued with a deep sigh. It was his biggest failure in the whole matter, besides his refusal to believe Christine all that time of their engagement. He had put himself in charge of finding the man, be him dead or alive, and he had failed. How could he assure Christine the ghost would no longer haunt her when he did not know if he was even alive? “No one found his body, and we haven't heard any sign of him since that night.”

“You mean besides what Christine has seen and heard?”

“I don't believe they were all real, not entirely.” He took her hand in silent solidarity, and she offered a small smile in response. “I have hardly left her side, Doctor, not for the last two years, and I have seen or heard nothing. And I have tried very hard to learn what she sees and hear what she hears so I could detect it too, but - I cannot. It remains visible only to her.”

“So, Monsieur, do you believe the 'opera ghost' is dead?”

Raoul sighed, and sat forward. He scrubbed at his hair and collected his thoughts before shrugging.

“I do not know.  _ But  _ I do not think he has come back to us. He released us, Doctor, and you cannot imagine the kind of pain I saw in his eyes when he cut my noose and lifted me to my feet. I saw his eyes, Doctor. They were… they held all the sadness of the world, and then some. We had broken his heart, and he continued to shatter it himself when he released us, but he did. He could have stopped us, killed us, locked us away, or even taken us along with him, but he chased us away so the mob did not find us, and gave us his only means of escape, instructing us how to leave while he stayed behind to face the horde. He was a monster, Doctor, but I think, in those last moments, he became human. And whether he is alive or dead, I do not believe he would ever haunt us again. Ever.”

While Isaac translated, Trest watched Raoul carefully and slowly nodded his understanding.

“I see,” he sat forward as well. “So, moving forward, Monsieur and Mademoiselle, I think we should make a pact, and convince ourselves in our hearts, that the opera ghost  _ is _ dead. That way, we may deal with these hauntings of Christine's mind for what they are, merely shadows, not a ghost, not a man, not a monster.  _ There is, my dear, no Phantom of the Opera.” _

Raoul looked to Christine, who stared, wide eyed and terrified at Trest. Then, blinking away the fog he thought he saw settle over her eyes, she sucked in a deep breath and nodded.

“ _ Oui, docteur. Il n'y a pas de Fantôme de l'Opéra _ .”

Suddenly, a chill like nothing he had ever felt ran up Raoul's back, and he shivered, head darting backwards to find whatever had touched him.

But there was nothing.

“Monsieur?” Trest frowned, and Christine touched his arm.

“Yes, yes,” Raoul muttered, turning back around to the others. “I'm sorry, Doctor. You're right, of course. There  _ is _ no Phantom of the Opera.”

“Sir?" a young man called from the doorway, all eyes turning on him. He was mixed in skin tone and was covered in freckles, with curly hair that shone gold against its dark roots. His eyes were like pale jade inlaid with gold, and drank up every detail of the two when they swept over them. The young man was only a teenager, but strong and tall, with the body of an athlete.

“Yes, Jack?” Trest turned.

“The facility is ready for the tour,” he said in broken, accented French, and Trest frowned.

“Speak English, boy!”

“Oh, I'm sorry, sir,” Jack stepped into the room and bowed his head. “The facility is ready for the tour.”

Frowning further, and swapping glances with Isaac, Trest stood and stalked to the teen.

“I did not organize for a tour,” he whispered.

“You didn't?” Jack frowned, glanced at Raoul and Christine again. “I thought you had, sir.”

“Why? Never mind that, we have never given a tour before, Jack, and shall not begin now.”

“I apologize, sir,” Jack bowed his head, and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Raoul stood and the teen turned back.

“ _ Oui, Monsieur _ ?”

“You've prepared a tour?” the young Vicomte asked, and Jack nodded, glancing up at Trest and translating for him. Isaac glared at Jack from where he was seated.

“It seems they'd like one anyway,” the teen muttered to Trest. “I can refuse them, if you'd like, sir.”

“Well, could we begin?” Raoul asked, Christine standing next to him as Jack translated. “I'm afraid Monsieur Macon would not like us staying around too much longer, but I would feel better knowing a little more about this place.”

Trest glared briefly down at the teen as he translated, who shrugged innocently.

“Very well,” he sighed, motioning for the door. “Jack, you are relieved to return to your duties.”

“Thank you, sir,” the teen bowed once more, passing the couple and hurrying to another door. As he clipped past, Christine blinked and looked after him.

“Monsieur?” she frowned, Raoul looking the direction she turned.

“What is it?”

“It's - nothing,” she shook her head and faced Trest again. “I'm sorry, I thought I heard something.”

“Well, you should know, I don't usually give tours,” Trest grinned, leading them behind the heavy wooden door at the back of the parlor. “But your case, Mademoiselle, is a most unusual one, and I should be very eager to continue to see you and offer what help I can.”

Nodding to Isaac, Christine smiled to Trest.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

 

* * *

 

 

The first room they entered was a large one filled with beds. Women of different ages filled the beds, some sitting up and some laying down, some crowded together around a deck of cards or sowing some threadless-blankets. Trest explained the kind of patients they accepted, including the ones refused by other facilities, should it be due to the severity of the case or the patient's own aggression. Many of these woman had not been there very long. Trest and his team worked tireless to heal them or help them as quickly as they could so that other patients could take their place. The most a single patient remained was a full month, and that was only because she had arrived to them already 7 and a half months pregnant, so they had allowed her to stay until and some time after the birth.

Raoul had asked what kind of treatments Trest and his colleagues used, and Trest explained that the answer was not an easy one. He had a vast network of other physicians like himself, who worked together on many of the cases they saw before them. They also allowed some patients, who were willing, to try new medications for their symptoms, and developed the drugs further with feedback the patients provided. Many a new medication had been perfected within their walls, he had boasted, and Raoul, from somewhere behind him, heard a laugh.

Instead of finding the source when he turned after it, however, he only met the eyes of one young lady, who stared at him. Her face, for whatever reason, burned itself into his mind, and Raoul watched as a tear, round and heavy, fell down her cheek, though her gaze did not waver from his own.

“Monsieur?” Trest called, and Raoul turned around quickly.

“Apologies,” he forced a smile, catching up with the group.

 

* * *

 

 

The men's ward, Trest assured them, was very similar to the women's, but would remain off limits for them. The male patients could be more aggressive, and he did not want to put Christine in any danger. Most of them hadn't seen a woman of any capacity in quite some time, and their behavior might prove difficult to predict. Raoul wondered why the male patients weren't turned around as quickly as the female, but kept his question to himself. Something inside him was more eager to simply leave the building than learn all of its secrets, and though he couldn't explain why, it was an urge that was growing more and more difficult to ignore.

“Doctor,” he interrupted, “thank you, but I'd much rather see Christine home now, if you don't mind.”

“So suddenly, Monsieur?” Trest frowned.

“I'm sorry, Monsieur, but it's been a terribly long last week or so, and I think we both still need quite a bit of rest.”

“Well, very well,” Trest nodded, leading them back to the front doors.

“Raoul,” Christine whispered to him, but Raoul hushed her, pulling her along.

 

* * *

 

 

Finally, they reached the front gate, And Raoul was glad to see the carriage pull up to the road. Trest shook Raoul's hand and bowed again to Christine.

“I should hope to see you again,” he grinned. “And I do apologize we were cut short so suddenly. As for you, my dear, I would encourage you to try to take careful stock of everything you've experienced since the night of the kidnapping that you doubt to be fully real, and we can discuss them each more carefully upon your next visit. Until then, good day to you both, and I anticipate hearing word from you.”

“Good day,” they both replied, turning to the carriage.

“Raoul, what happened?” Christine asked as he pulled her for the carriage, Macon climbing out.

“Nothing, dear,,” he lied, “I just think we had get home. We don't want to keep Monsieur Macon waiting.”

* * *

 

 

Arriving at home, the trio having barely exchanged a word during the entire trip, they were fed, but Raoul ate little. Christine, he knew, watched him carefully, so he forced himself to eat something, complaining of an upset spirit that stole his appetite. Macon ushered them to bed then, suggesting they slept on the beds this time instead of the floor like children.

Upstairs, Raoul changed as Christine crawled into her bed, huddling into the blankets.

“Raoul?” she asked, Raoul absently humming in response. “Raoul?”

“Yes, dear?” he replied, Christine hearing the bed underneath him squeak as he sat down. She bit her lip.

“Are you ready for me to turn the light out?”

A bitter chuckle escaped him, barely muffled by the screen.

“Whenever you'd like, Christine.”

Nodding, Christine sat up and blew the candles out, curling back up into bed.

“Christine?

_...Christine?” _

“No,” she breathed, screwing her eyes shut and shoving her face into the pillow. “You're not real. You're dead, my angel. You're... you're dead.”

She was asleep within the half hour, and Raoul sighed. He was painfully, hauntingly, and stubbornly still awake, and imagined he wouldn't get any sleep that night. Every shadow in the room moved, and every sound was a hushed breath. He thought he saw a figure beyond the screen, and heard music from downstairs. Whispers in his ears and eyes on his back.

Shaking his head, he scrubbed his face, willing away the paranoia. He knew the visions and noises weren't real, and he had to stay focused and alert for Christine's sake. She had suffered without his support for long enough, and he was determined to never desert her again, not when she needed him most. If he had helped drive her mad, he would do everything he could, and more, to assure he helped her heal, and he meant it. If she swore to never marry him, he would not leave her side. If Philip no longer supported them, he would work instead, even returning to the sea if he must. And if anyone tried to stop her, or mocked her again, well, he might not be able to stop himself from attacking.

What he had never prepared for, however, was hearing the Phantom's voice again.


End file.
